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Wednesday, May 16, 2012


Researcher and I have been discussing things back and forth. She thinks she can use my story in a book. I say she's welcome to it: if it can help someone all the better. That's a good thing.

I don't want to say her name here, so I'll simply name her Researcher. So far she's a good and wise person; has driven me to pick up projects I thought I'd never be able to pick up again. She's also a fantastic writer. I love to read her things. And I dare hope we're becoming friends; that most precious of universal gifts.

She asked a series of questions for her research, and one of them had to do with childhood abuse in the family. Now, I now that many people in The Program talk about how they were so severely abused by their parents, or their father sold them into sexual slavery, or some other horrible story. I know that without that historic abuse in your life some researchers will decide you lie and are not part of the Program at all.

Well. I have no family abuse in my life. Sorry to disappoint.

My father, now, he was abused very heavily: he had been taken from his family when he was a kid and spent his life being passed around. That has to do with the stigma of being "Native American" in those days. Hell, even when my first born child was born I had people trying to take him from me before he was a few hours old. The government takes Indian children away from their parents; end of story. The government does not trust us. That's the rest of the story. We are still "The Indian Problem". That's the story in a nutshell.

Part of my father's history is he'd been bequeathed a bunch of land by his grandparents. It was a house, a small island of maybe an acre wide; things like that around the town I grew up in. Then the government gave him to some distant cousins to be fostered. While fostering him they beat him with two by fours and homesteaded his land out from under him. Nice, huh.

(But even so that branch of the family had a strong "witch" named Fanny who would pain her moods and cause the weather to change - so I was told by my father's cousin who was called my aunt. And that so-called aunt also fancied herself a psychic; used to work with the local police and everything.

She used to freak out at the tricks my older brother and I used to do, but that's not important. She was ignorant. Enough said.)

So some abuse my father suffered through that carried down. He just had a fierce temper. He didn't sexually abuse us. Again, sorry to disappoint. He just would get mad and spank us very hard, then spank us again for crying.

There was a couple of times he lost his temper and left my brother weeping softly on the floor. That could be considered abusive, I suppose. But when you people think of abuse, you think of some sort of daily torture with constant bruises.  That wasn't my life.  So I dunno if abuse is the proper term so much as he was rough. And we feared him.

Mom, too... not abusive so much as distant from me. Yes there were times she would not respond to us at all, as if we weren't there. She once told me I was ugly. When my little brother was born, her attitude towards me changed so visibly I resented my little brother a lot. She's different now and doesn't remember any of it, of course. But I have a chipped tooth from one of her slaps still today.

But still on that when I went to school during the freezing winters - yes Florida used to have those with busted pipes and sheets of ice and everything - with shoes that were popping open it wasn't my  mother. It was that we had no money. And no, we didn't get food stamps or some magical tribal check. I've never qualified for food stamps; not when I was a child with my mother, not when I was pregnant with my children, and not when I was a single mother with two small babies in diapers.

No, the sexual abuse happened with an unrelated church man - who was a three time offender but had been allowed his kids back anyway. I was friends with them, and practically lived over there. I was ... maybe 10, 11, or so. I was either over there or my grandmother's house.

 I was also the star witness when he went to court the final time. Not sure why it was me, but yeah. You'd think his daughters would have made better witnesses when it was his oldest daughter who made the call. But these men in suits took me into a room with a long table without my parents, sat me down, and proceeded to ask me very serious adult questions about the situation. I was... maybe... 14? 15? Although it seems to me I was 13: I tend to age revert though.

They didn't ask me for details on what he had done. They just asked one time if he had done it, and I said yes. "I know because I had a dream and woke from it." So then they asked what do you want done with him?

And I answered, "House arrest, counseling. He's a sick man." I was repeating that last part from a counselor who, during the initial interview to see if I needed mental treatment for this, had told me about how the molesters think they're having real sex with you. And that they often don't realize they're abusing you.

That counselor had explained a lot to me that day as if I were some sort of college student, and through it all I was repeating what my inside me was saying. "BE sure and tell them you know it's not your fault it happened." Etc. So I got out of that with a clean bill of mental health, which was a very important thing for some reason. And when the counselor was talking I was thinking, "Liar. That man was training me to have sex with him in the future." Which was obvious: if you'd heard him talk all those years.

So this 4 time offender who had molested his own daughters, me, the neighbor's girls, and a couple of small girls one of the daughters was babysitting, was given house arrest and counseling. To the letter on what I'd said they should do, I might add. =^^=

Go me, empress of everything. Except the Military Graphic Arts department, but that shall change someday. Because SOMEONE who knows what they're doing needs to take over. Some of these posters around here. Day-um.

Through most of my young life I held on to my virginity like some talisman. It was important not to lose it. Young boys came asking point blank for sex, and I turned them down. I've been pushed into bushes, approached, you name it. I skirted all the dangers as I held onto myself; partly because I knew I had a chosen mate, partly because I didn't love those boys, because I didn't want to get pregnant, etc.

There was an inner knowledge that I was an "Untouchable". No one was allowed to tup me in that way; I was exempt for some reason. I told this to a boy once who was asking me to have sex with him. I don't know where I got the idea.

But even today I must recognize that most of my sour sexual experiences are the result of desperation and poor choices that happened after my first marriage ended. Not because of the Program, not because of some dark agenda.

I recognize there probably was some sexual training in there somewhere, I just can't find it. There were times I "dreamed" of demons rubbing my body, exciting me to a sexual frenzy only to leave me unsatisfied. Between the way the other kids treated me at school, the abuse, and the years of knowing I was "Untouchable" I've developed this serious sexual hole in me; I can't feel sex hardly at all. I have a hard time getting into it - I can't just throw myself into it and care the way so many women claim to do. And if my husband doesn't have sex with me I begin to feel ugly and undesirable; my morale takes a serious plunge into the sewer.

I was Untouchable because I was meant for something else. But that's the extent of my knowledge.  Well that’s part of the point of this journal: to help me remember and figure things out.